


Precious

by guiltyhousewife



Category: Disney - All Media Types, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Disguise, Frottage, M/M, Molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltyhousewife/pseuds/guiltyhousewife
Summary: Ratigan really, really liked Basil's disguise





	Precious

"Ratigan, the dark slant of your rank and perverse mind never ceases to amaze me."

"Oh really, do hush dear-heart, you are spoiling the mood."

Basil's posture is almost comical, at least in contrast to the predicament he has found himself in. Standing as straight and erect as any of the Queen's soldiers, his discomfort manifests itself in the punishing clench of his body's muscles, the unnatural stiffness of both lip and limb that betrays his inner humiliation. Ratigan gives the sober detective the slightest of taps, and as sure as rain, he rocks right back, evoking a smile from the criminal mastermind and an angry puff of air from Basil. 

As amusing as it all is, it was really this same sort of contrast that inspired Ratigan to make his rather eccentric request. 

Ratigan's lips press tight in a quick smirk inward - less a request, really, than a flexing of Ratigan's will and wit. 

Ever his mind's mate, Basil chooses that time to speak once more, and Ratigan suspects it is Basil's attempt to battle his own feelings of self consciousness, to put his strong, confidant voice into the awkward air. 

"Now, at the very least, I expect you to be a man of your word. I hold you to your side of the bargain, Ratigan, when this is through."

Ratigan leans over Basil's shoulder, prompting the smaller rodent to stiffen, if possible, even more, and Ratigan pats him condescendingly on the cheek.

"But of course. You'll have the ambassador's little daughter back safe and sound, and just in time to pose heroically with for the front page."

Basil's cheeks color self-righteously and his chest puffs out as if to start a defensive tirade, but Ratigan lets his fingers wrap slightly around Basil's throat, the barest of touches operating as a reminder of his strength and savagery, and Basil quietens, for now, at least. 

Ratigan, for his part, resumes his silence appreciation of the detective's form -

or rather, the clothes that adorn it.

One of the few of Basil's missteps coming back to both haunt and taunt him: the silly little sailor disguise he so foolishly walked into Ratigan's den wearing, now donned again for Ratigan's pleasure alone. Oh, and how dear and sweet and stupid it truly was. 

Ratigan, with no concern for the physical jarr he gives Basil at yet another unwanted touch, lets his fingers slide calculatingly up the fabric of Basil's dark blue coat. 

Ha. He knew it; Basil couldn't resist the pull of his natural class. No sailor, thug, ruffian, what-have-you, would ever wear a coat like this: blue, soft beaten velvet, with nary a smoke or oil stain. 

His fingers, motivated, dance up to where Basil's preciously-pink turtleneck comes up from under his coat and tugs at it experimentally. Again, another tally of Basil's character - this too was a poor copy of ruffian-rags. Too well made, too soft, too flatteringly snug and embracing on the detective's frame. Perhaps a counterargument to Ratigan's theory of Basil's punishing denial of any physical charm? 

Putting the thought away, he at last reaches the head in his savoring exploration of Basil's outfit. He takes the little blue cap off Basil's head and plays with the idea of popping on his own head with a flourish, but can foresee how ill the costume would fit - his own skull is too expansive, housing his gifted and large brain and the muscles of his jaw and mouth. No, it is a toy, a doll costume, perfect for his doll, his toy, Basil. With an almost gentle look of fondness, he replaces it back atop Basil's head. 

Ratigan finds with surprise his eye drawn to the last, forgotten element of the detective's faulty disguise. He had thought it too implausible a hope that Basil would remember it along with the coat, the hat, and the shirt. And yet there it was: the small, thin, black mustache perched discordantly on Basil's lip. Ratigan remembers the thrill he experienced tugging at it when they ambushed Basil at the den, how Basil's anger was keyed, his manner flustered and ashamed. In nostalgic hope he reaches for it again. 

A split second is all it takes for Ratigan to change his mind and rip the entire thing off in one harsh, violent jerk, and to his delight, Basil cries out at the momentary pain of the glue leaving his fur and singeing his mouth. Without real decision, Ratigan is sure, Basil's tongue comes out in a pink swipe, testing and soothing the abused flesh of his lip. Ratigan's stomach does a painful clench, a lurch, a warm roll of painfully-conscious desire, and startled by the strength of the sensation, Ratigan places a gentlemanly hand at his heart. Basil looks up at him, surprised at the momentary show of weakness, and his heel slides backwards the tiniest of inches, debating whether it is his proper moment for escape. 

Ratigan gives a small snarl and whips around to the back of Basil once more, grabbing his upper arms in his clawed hands. This, thankfully, is enough to remind Basil of his place, and he stands compliantly still as Ratigan dips his head forward to rest on Basil's back. 

Basil, his Basil.

In his hands, he is splinters and glass. Ratigan could break him with ridiculous ease. His foolish, brilliant, maddening, enrapturing succubus of a foe is at odds in his pitiful disguise. The inadequacy of his rouse only points out with more strength that Basil is the pearl before swine in the underworld in which he chooses to play.

And if Ratigan is to be the swine, then let him indulge in the creature's greed.

Basil gives a sincere, frightened cry when Ratigan's claws, now unsheathed in his panting intensity of thought, scrabble indelicately at the small of his back, pushing up his coat and his shirt and shoving down his trousers. He feels vulnerable in the cold waft of air across his exposed lower half, but terrified when he feels the furnace heat of Ratigan's hips replacing the space. 

"Ratigan!" he cries out, as if the familiarity of his name could stay the rat. 

Basil finally gathers himself enough to twist and fight in Ratigan's grip when the older male begins to rut against him, rocking dangerously close to the middle of his thighs. 

"Now Ratigan, that's enough."

He stumbles after a particular powerful thrust against him, and is saved from crashing face first into the floor by a painful snatching of his hair, jerked upright and farther, so that he lays bent backward like a bow against Ratigan as the criminal ruts against him. 

"Ratigan, unhand me at once!"

"Basil."

There is no other word for it - Ratigan growls his name, and deep from his barreled chest it is a form of violence in of itself. Basil shudders, even in his tense and unnatural posture, feeling the professor's dark words rumble so close to his face.

"Shut. Up."

No veneer of polished affection, no chance for Ratigan to display his verbosity and intellect. A simple, crude, warning, and Basil, against his honor, finds himself obeying it.

His back and neck threaten to snap under the force of Ratigan's pushes and presses against him, but his ever-working mind deduces Ratigan must be almost finished now, judging by the acceleration of his thrusts. He gasps when the last thrust pushes insistently at his entrance, and though not breaching it, frightens him enough to make him choke, though he manages a groan of embarrassment when scalding hot seed soaks his fur and drips down his legs.

Ratigan pushes him away roughly, and with a quickness and deftness of movement so unexpected for someone post-coital, storms from the room, shutting it behind him. Left alone, Basil stands numb and disbelieving for a long time, before mechanically going to pull down his shirt, then bending slightly to pull up his dropped pants. He stumbles, a hand flying up to cover his mouth when an unwanted sob tries to fly from his clenched throat. No, no no, he furiously tells himself, fighting desperately and obsessively to keep each shamed tear at bay. 

He must have been standing that way, battling silently that way, for longer than he thought, because it takes the bang of the door Ratigan left through coming open again to snap Basil to attention, and he shoves his pants back up. He refuses to turn around and face Ratigan, though if he would have, he would have been stunned beyond belief at how completely composed Ratigan looks once more. 

"Oh no, no no, pet, I wouldn't dream of having you walk out in those soiled things." The blush that washes over Basil at Ratigan's words feels hot enough to burn, and he only catches the flippant wave of Ratigan's hand before the professor leaves through his wet and shining eyes. 

"You'll find a replacement outfit in that trunk there." 

When Basil can tell he is really alone, he kneels next to the pointed trunk, wiping an exhausted hand across his face before opening it.

And true to his word, there is one of Basil's standard detective-uniforms folded inside, though with the terrified, bound body of the ambassador's daughter atop it.


End file.
